


When I saw you coming, ice and rage in your eyes

by lubilu17



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/F, Infant Death, I’m sorry, Minor Character Death, Relationship Study, Suicide mention, This is gonna be sad kids, i will personally fill this tag if I have to, implied domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-16 05:15:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12336201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lubilu17/pseuds/lubilu17
Summary: Two women meet and fall apart throughout the years.OrA character and relationship study into Marya and Hélène.





	1. To love is to burn

**Author's Note:**

> I’m gonna apologise before you read this about the amount of sad in this.
> 
> So sorry.
> 
> Enjoy. Xx

Unlike any of Russia’s other noble families Marya grew up with no siblings, none had been born after her, only before. Her older brothers and sisters all passing away before Marya was born, siblings she could only love as tiny gravestones in the family cemetery rather than playing around the house. 

She’d seen her father pray for them at church as she grew older, pray for them to be happy, pray for them to be safe in whatever came after death. As a child Marya had liked to believe there was something after death, an afterlife of sorts, where children could play until nightfall, and eat desserts for every meal and adults didn’t have to worry about war and could also eat desserts for every meals if that’s what they wanted to do. It was a way to rationalise it all, a perfect afterlife so unlike the world she lived in. 

She’d seen her father pray for her mother as well, as she grew frailer throughout the years, the multiple still borns had taken their toll on her body. Marya could remember he way her skin had clung to her bones, waxy and sallow, eyes sunken into their sockets and waxy cheeks. Her mother had been like it for so long she could no longer remember the woman her mother had been when she’d been younger. No matter how terrible her mother had looked, Marya had loved her with all her heart, loved her with all her soul. She’d prayed for her at church, along with the short prayers for the brothers and sisters she never had her chance to meet.

Her prayers were never answered and her mother passed away not even a week later.

 

It started with the slight touches on her hand, fingertips dancing up her palm, tracing the veins on her wrist, friendly touches, nothing out of the ordinary for two friends. They’d spend their time reading and sewing, all the things that girls were supposed to learn. Marya hated it. Though secretly she quite enjoyed knitting, but maybe that was just the way the instructors hands on her's made her heart beat quicker than it had ever done before. Marya’d call them friends, they spent enough time together, spent enough time joking with each other to be considered friends. She wasn’t much older than Marya, 20 years old to Marya’s 15. Nothing would happen between them, Marya knew realistically. How could it?

But it wasn’t just her tutor that she started to notice. It was the curl of a perfectly painted lip, the curve of a corset bound waist, the arch of a raised eyebrow of the other girls at balls and parties she was forced to attend. She started to notice other girls the same way they all whispered about the boys. A woman should not, no could not feel this way about another woman. She’d heard of places far away where it didn’t matter who you loved but she’d also seen the sneer of peoples lips whenever such place was mentioned in conversation. She’d heard of the way peoples reputation had been ruined by a gossipy servant who’d discovered the wrong people in bed at the wrong time. She’d heard of the way people of not so high status had been executed for loving the wrong person. Marya didn’t want that for herself.

Maybe it was love she held for her tutor, a love so painful Marya would spend her nights in tears, unable to show her affections to their full extent. Her tutor took a tiny piece of Marya’s heart with her the day she said Marya was too old to be under her care.

At church on a Sunday morning she’d pray for herself, pray for this to go away, pray to not want forbidden love. She could not tell if she was praying for society’s opinion to change or for her attraction to the taboo to change. Either would have been preferable. She prayed for the missing part of her heart. She vowed to a God she wasn’t sure was listening that she’d never fall in love again with anybody. 

 

Marya’s father found a suitable husband. He was tall, a soldier, with broad shoulders and a large beard. His eyes the colour of coal, dark, stormy, terrifying. A noble soldier, with his life dedicated to his country, it didn't scare her when he went off to fight, it calmed her. 

They married not 3 months after their engagement, three months of Marya's carefully placed hands and purposefully chosen words. Three months of her skirting round her true feelings. Three months of trying to fall in love with her betrothed and having no such luck. She loved somethings about him, the way he practically ignored her all of the time, the way he let her stay at home and read rather than go with him to events, the way he kept to himself before they were married. Marya loved the way he avoided her. 

He avoided her until he didn't. 

Their wedding was beautiful, if Marya hadn't felt like she was going to throw up she'd have looked round and appreciated the decoration in the church. Instead she'd made eye contact with either Pierre or Hélène, thinking how she'd rather have married either of them, neither of them looked happy but they never did when in public with other. Or maybe it was just that it was Marya's wedding. On married woman having an affair with an unmarried woman could be brushed under the rug, but two married women having affairs with each other, well that was a disaster. She didn't want to think about Hélène as she said her vows, didn't want to think about the way Hélène's lips had touched hers the day before, didn't want to think about the way Hélène had held her as she wept the day before, didn't want to think about the way Hélène had calmed her as she raged the day before. 

She didn't want to think of Hélène when she was pushed into bed that night, when her new husband left burns on her neck from his beard, when he whispered "mine" against her skin before he fell asleep, half collapsed on her body. She didn't want to think of Hélène as she managed to pull herself from under his body and stumbled to the study, and wept. She couldn't help but think of Hélène as she wept in the study on her wedding night. 

The next Sunday at church Marya prayed for herself, for Hélène. Prayed for her husband to want to carry on avoiding her. Prayed for Hélène and herself. Prayed to a god she wanted to believe was listening to her. 

 

The birth of a child should be a magical thing, that’s what Marya was taught as a child, she didn’t believe that, how could she? How could she believe that childbirth is a magical thing when all of her siblings died? The day the doctor told her she was pregnant was the worst day of her life. Is this how she dies? Does she die bringing another life into this cruel worlds? 

Her husband is back in the war throughout most of her pregnancy, not that he’d do anything to help, it just means she doesn’t have to worry about rings of bruises stretching round her wrists, drunken shouts through hallways, marks dancing over her skin. She’s safe as long as he’s away. She and her child are safe as long as he’s away. Throughout this time she grew to love the child inside her, something she vowed not to do. 

Hélène shows up sometimes to drink tea and press kisses to Marya’s stomach. Marya doesn’t like to think about those afternoons when she’s alone at night, alone in the dark. She doesn’t think about Hélène when she feels her child kick first, no she thinks of all the ways she can protect them from their father, from her husband.

The birth of a child should be a beautiful thing, except it’s not.

It’s bloody, painful, there’s screaming from Marya, shouts from doctors, there’s more blood and more pain, more screams, more shouts. Then silence.

There’s silence when there should be the screaming of a newborn child. 

There’s silence when there should be congratulations from doctors.

There’s silence when there should be joyful cries from Marya.

There’s nothing as her son is placed into her arms, his eyes are closed, mouth wide open, fist clenched, he looks like he could be sleeping, except his chest does not rise or fall, his eyes will never open. 

The birth of a child should be a beautiful thing, but beautiful things never last.

People visit Marya tell her that she’s in their prayers, they apologise for something out of their control. She buries her son in the small family graveyard beside her mother and her siblings. She cries until her voice is hoarse, curled up against the small marble slab, hand clasped around the golden cross hung round her neck. She prays for the sound of her baby, for her health, and a small part of her prays for her husbands death. He never came back for the funeral.

 

It’s not even a year later she gets a letter with news her husband is dead. A bullet to the head, simple, effective. A small, cruel part of her wishes he’d died a painful death, punishment for the pain he caused her. Friends and family visit her bringing words of condolence, small gifts of pity, flowers, wine, cakes. Pierre visits and brought vodka. She appreciates Pierre’s visit more than anybody else’s. He brings vodka and they sit and drink it out of the bottle in Marya’s library. Hélène doesn’t come and visit, somewhere along the way she lost Hélène and somehow that hurts even more. Marya doesn’t cry, cant bring it in herself to cry.

The funeral was simple, a soldiers funeral, not many turned up. Not many liked her husband. Pierre was sat in the pew behind Marya, Fedya Dolokov sat in the back, a look of what could be described as guilt etched onto his face, and a few other soldiers scattered throughout the church.

He was buried alongside his son, but unlike the day his son was buried, fog spread thin and loose throughout the graveyard smudging the trees. Marya didn’t cry, she drank more vodka and contemplated moving to a smaller house. 

During the funeral she prayed for her husband to be sent to hell for some sin or another.

 

Throughout the week after Natasha drank arsenic Marya prays more than she has in years, she prays longer than she did at her her husbands funeral, she prays longer than she did after the death of her son, she prays longer than she did after falling in love with a women, she prays longer than she did after her mother’s death, she prays longer than she did for her siblings. She prays that Natasha will make it through the night. She prays that Sonya will forgive herself. She prays that Natasha will not be taken from her like everybody else she has loved. 

Although she’d never admit it she grew to love the two girls like her own children the longer they stayed with her, she broke her vow to herself. She loved the two girls and one of them is on the brink of death. She loved the two girls and one of them almost ran away with another man. 

As she turned to leave the church Marya’s eyes met the eyes of a woman who stopped believing in God years ago, the eyes of a woman Marya had to restrain herself from loving too much. Had to stop herself from loving too much because everybody Marya loved left her.


	2. To love is to freeze

Hélène’s brothers were a nightmare, there was Anatole, young, naive, immature and there was Ippolit, quiet, bumbling, in a world of his own. Most would say he was stupid but Hélène knew better, he wasn’t stupid but clever enough to live inside his thoughts. Each child had a way of coping, Ippolit with his made up worlds, Anatole with his childish games, and Hélène with cold, calculating power plays. Each child had a way of coping with death.

Everybody’s heard the tale of Boudicca poisoning herself to avoid capture but they’ve never heard the story of the suicide of Aline Kuragina. They’ve never heard the way she mixed cyanid with gin and downed it. They’ve never heard the way she escaped the capture of her husbands grasp. Hélène heard he tale, heard it from her father, was told she was never coming home. Hélène heard the tale before she saw the body, say a ghost of her mother. Hélène heard the tale and never told it to anyone, not even her brothers who she loved more than her own life.

The nightmares began the night she saw her mother’s corpse resting in her bed. Nightmares of ghosts and figures raising from the dead. A seven year old Anatole snuck from his chambers to hold her, hold her head in his lap, make sure she was safe from harm.

  
Hélène’s mother was always able to sooth their father. Now she was gone there was biting to stop his wrath. There was no direct anger, no hitting, not to Hélène anyway but she couldn’t say the same for her brothers. They were never enough for him. Anatole and Ippolit were never clever enough, never manly enough, never enough to be the Prince. Hélène was never quiet enough, never willing to submit, never unquestioning enough. No he’d never hit Hélène but his words stung her skin, left bruises in places no one could see. She knew it was all the effect of the drink, the drink and the pain. The drink was never gin anymore, it had always used to be gin, now it was vodka straight from a bottle.

They acted like it was nothing, like they were the perfect family, like the only time they saw their father was at event and when he came to tell them they weren’t good enough for him. They acted like the perfect family and no one could tell them otherwise.

She was trained for society, taught the way to charm a man, how to walk in long dresses, how to breath in corsets. It was a distraction from everything else. She taught her brothers how to dance with hushed lessons during the night. She taught Anatole music, she taught Ippolit languages. She trained them to be gorgeous, to be beautiful, to be perfect.

They entered society together as one united front. Hélène and Anatole stealing the limelight with Ippolit happily in the shadows behind them. Hélène and Anatole would dance together at balls, Hélène would make sure Ippolit was always comfortable, Ippolit would assist in Anatole’s tellings of stories of made up lands.

Hélène’s nightmares were no longer of her mother’s corpse but of their fathers hand grasped around the wrist of her brothers, squeezing enough to make a bruise.

  
As close as she was to Ippolit. Hélène was always closer to Anatole. They always danced with each other first at balls, stayed up late trading secrets about people they’d seen, cheered the other up when they were sad. They spent their days outside whilst Ippolit spent his days inside with books and music. They learnt to ride horses together, a beloved childhood activity turned into a playful competition between the two siblings.

Anatole had always been more reckless on his horse, more willing to take risks on rides, more willing to be daring. His childhood curiosity had turned into adolescent idiocy, the hatred of being proved wrong. If someone told him he couldn’t do something he’d just go for it and do it anyway. Even if he had decided to listen to Hélène he’d still probably have done something else stupid further into the ride. But he didn’t listen to Hélène when she told him to not go down his usual riverside path because of a recent flood. He didn’t listen to Hélène and all she heard of the accident was the high pitched scream of her brother and the whine of the horse as it collapsed.

The week Anatole laid in that bed with a gash in his side, blood seeping through the bandages was the most terrifying week of Hélène’s life. Her brothers life suspended in whatever lay between life and death. It’d taken him a week to wake up, a week of Hélène sitting by his bedside, Ippolit bringing her food and water. She didn’t move for a week, her hair becoming greasier by the day, the ache in her back dint matter when her brothers life was in danger.

He woke after a week, Hélène’s tears had gone by then, and had just left her with dry, heaving sobs into Anatole’s shoulder, trying to not jostle his torso. Ippolit standing to the side of the pair, a small smile stretching across his face at the sight of his siblings. As his wiry arms had wrapped themselves around Hélène’s waist the two siblings had stayed in that position for hours, until Anatole had fallen back asleep and Hélène had managed to get herself to a bath to wash herself.

Her nightmares were now haunted by a high pitched scream, the whine of a horse and the deathly pale skin of her younger brother.

  
Pierre and Dolokov were almost one relationship for Hélène. They happened at the same time, only one was purely for show and the other was to be hidden from prying eyes. Maybe her marriage to Pierre would’ve been better if she hadn’t spent the hours leading up to it with Dolokov’s head under the skirts of her wedding dress, if Dolokov’s shoulder didn’t hold a bite mark made by Hélène herself as she’d stopped herself from screaming. Maybe their marriage would’ve worked better if Hélène hadn’t been imagining Dolokov as Pierre had kissed her in places where Dolokov’s mouth had been not five hours before.

Hélène and Dolokov played a dangerous game, working out every frustration they had on each other. They danced around with the knowledge that Pierre was oblivious to what went on in is house and would stay that way as long as they stayed quiet.

There was no love involved in either relationship, that was something Hélène had known since the beginning. Not even a sliver of chance between her and Pierre, Dolokov was just there, he was easy and had enough anger at the world that it worked like clockwork.

Pierre was always on her arm at every social event, always slept beside her at night, not touching just coexisting. They made the perfect couple in public. But Hélène couldn’t help but want more, want more than grimaces in corridors, want more than fits of passion with no emotion. She felt empty, void of any sort of love.

Her dreams became Hélène’s funeral with the only attendees being Pierre, Dolokov, Anatole and Ippolit (because even in her nightmares she can’t imagine existing without her brothers).

  
Maya Dmitrievna had a reputation. A reputation of being cold towards everybody but her family. But gazing into the woman’s eyes Hélène couldn’t disagree more with that reputation. Eyes that held so much pain that Hélène wanted to hold her and let her sob. The first time they’d met she’d noticed Marya’s eyes following her throughout the ballroom, following the sway of her hips (something that Hélène was _definitely not_ exaggerating for Marya’s benefit). In return Hélène’s eyes had never strayed from her, the way she stood in the corner, drink in hand, never quite being part of a conversation even when being talked directly to.

Maybe that was what drew Hélène to her, the way she never truly fit into society, something Hélène saw in herself. Hélène, the queen on society, who felt so alone all of the time, with her brother off at war and a husband to whom she had a mutual distaste as he had to her. Neither of them truly confirming to the ideal idea that society had for a woman.

Their relationship was built on kisses shared in dark hallways, sneaking out of operas halfway through the first act, hiding away in the Bezukhov household whenever Pierre was away for days. It was a whirlwind, it was beautiful and Hélène cherished every moment of it. Cherished the only relationship in her life that meant as much to her as her younger brother.

Marya’s engagement didn’t come as much of a surprise to either of them, it was bound to happen someday and a soldier was most definitely better than a man who never left the house. However, what did surprise Hélène was the way Marya had held it together perfectly until the day before the wedding when she had broken down in Hélène’s arms, raging at a god Hélène had stopped believing in. Hélène had soothed her with comforting kisses and fingers massaging shoulders. The wedding itself could have been beautiful, Pierre and Hélène going together, each as miserable as the other. Marya who’s eyes had shown so many emotions in Hélène’s presence now showed something Hélène had never seen on the other woman. Fear.

She couldn’t remember what had started the argument. It could have been the fact Hélène had missed one of their scheduled meet ups. It could have been the fact that Marya had stopped taking care of herself after the death of her son. Whatever it was it’d been building up for months, it’d been building up for months then broke out like a wildfire one night. It’s flames burning everything they’d worked for. They’d both screamed unthinkable things at each other, words tinged with the unforgettable sent of burnt paper. Burnt letters. Love letters.

They’d managed to tend a wildfire but it’d got out of control and managed to burn down the kingdom they’d built for themselves.

Hélène still saw Marya around, at the opera, at the market place, in the streets and each time she saw the bruises that wrapped around her wrist whenever her husband had returned from the war. Maybe it was these bruises, so like the ones she’d seen on her brother's wrists as a child, that had made her go to Dolokov for a single favour. Maybe it was these bruises that had led to a well timed bullet in Marya’s husband’s head. Maybe it was these bruises that led her to want to help the woman who had broken her heart.

Hélène’s dreams consisted of Marya trapped in a burning house with her husband having just thrown a lit match.

  
She heard about Natasha poisoning herself through her husband, through his rage at her, at her brother. The young girl she had seen herself only days ago. Maybe he’d told her to be cruel, bring up memories of her mother, except Pierre wasn’t a cruel man at all. She’d been told about Natasha poisoning herself and the only thing she could do was go to church and pray to a god she had stopped believing in almost a lifetime ago.

But that never happened as when she entered the church the first thing she saw were a pair of eyes she’d fallen in love with years before, now older with dark bags hung underneath, just looking tired and empty. The only thing she could do was go and catch Marya as she collapsed into her arms in an empty church and hold her had the other woman let out broken sobs into Hélène’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed me!!


	3. To love is to live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hélène, Marya and the great conversation of 1812
> 
> Also Sonya’s there too

Sonya was standing guard outside of Natasha’s room, she hadn’t moved in hours and her feet were beginning to hurt at this point. Every half hour or so she’d taken to knocking in Natasha’s door, asking if she could be let in. Each time the answer had been the same. No. No she didn’t want Sonya in her room, didn’t want her to see Natasha like this, empty and broken. So Sonya waited for the time that her cousin would let her into the room. She waited in the corridor with her now cold cup of tea that Marya had left her before leaving for church and a candle with a dwindling flame.

She wouldn’t be alone for too long, Marya would be back soon. She never spent too long praying. Sonya had heard her godmothers prayers one night as she was on her way to bed. Marya had left the door to her room open slightly and Sonya had glimpsed her knelt by the edge of her bed, deep red hair hanging over her bowed head. She’d heard her godmother pray for a group of people she’d never heard of, that part was understandable, neither Sonya or Natasha had ever had the chance to meet any of Marya’s family. But towards the end of her prayer Sonya had paused. Marya had prayed for Hélène Bezukhova to be safe from whatever wrath her husband had.

That’d been strange, each time Sonya had met Hélène’s husband, Pierre, he’d been kind to her, danced with her and her cousin at parties Marya had known him longer so would better than her. But Sonya couldn’t even imagine Pierre hurting anybody, not even Hélène, who’s brother had driven Natasha to swallow arsenic. No, she decided that Pierre wouldn’t hurt a sound and Marya was just being precarious.

But that still hadn’t explained why she’d prayed for Hélène in the first place. She decided, when laying in bed that night, that Marya had her own reasons for praying for Hélène to be safe.

Now, stood in the corridor outside Natasha’s room, Sonya realised that Marya had been at church for hours, something she usually tried to avoid, preferring to go back home to clean, eat, and knit. Walking downstairs to see whether she’d just missed her godmother coming home, Sonya noticed a small window that she’d never seen before, a window small enough and hidden away enough that it wouldn’t be easily seen by someone unless they were really paying attention to the corridors they were passing. It wasn’t a corridor Sonya usually walked through, it was the corridor that led to her godmothers chambers, but she was checking to see whether Marya was down here at all. The window was small and plain, looking out on a small graveyard in the garden. Graves littered the ground, too many to count, but the thing that struck Sonya was the two newer looking stones, not weathered enough to be from any generation other than Marya’s. Even from the distance that Sonya was looking at the graves she could tell that there was a difference in the two. The smaller looking well kept with fresh flowers leant against the headstone and the larger, unruly and unkept. It only really just occurred to Sonya that her godmother had lived a life before her and Natasha came to the city, that she like so many others loved and lost.

She made herself tear her eyes away from the glass, carrying on down the corridor, knocking on each door softly, calling out for Marya. There was no reply from any of the doors. Maybe she just wasn’t back yet, maybe her prayers included Natasha health, a hope for Natasha’s survival. Or, maybe Marya just wanted to get out of the house, a house tainted with the stench of death, the overwhelming smell of doctors treatments, herbal ointments. It wasn’t the usual smell of smoke from the hearth and spiced tea, laced with rum. It was horrifying and it honestly made Sonya want to cry slightly.

It was as she was making her way back to outside if Natasha’s room when she heard the front door open, signalling her godmothers return. As she made her way down the stairs to find her when she heard two voices murmuring in the drawing room, whoever it was had left the door slightly ajar, just enough for Sonya to be able to see who it was in the room. To her surprise, accompanying her godmother was Hélène Bezukhova, the source of many of Sonya's questions about her godmothers life.

Hélène was picking one of the bottles of vodka that Marya kept in the drawing room out of its cabinet and untwisted the cap more gracefully than Sonya ever believed it was possible to open a bottle. She held the opened bottle in a toast before opening her mouth.

“Here’s to the health of married women.” Followed by an empty, hollow laugh. A laugh that Sonya never thought she’d hear from Hélène, who made everyone believe they were her closest friend. Hélène who, from what she’d heard from Natasha, could make a room light up with her laugh. Hélène who just sounded empty and exhausted.

To Sonya's surprise, Marya took the bottle from Hélène, let out her own hollow laugh, and took a large swig of the vodka.

“Here’s to he health of married women indeed.”

A slight smirk crossing Marya’s lips before falling. The look that was strewn across her face now fully reminded Sonya that her godmother was human, not an emotionless statue. For the first time since the cousins arrival Marya had looked her age, with dark bags staining her pale skin, the streaks of grey in her hair seemed more stark and obvious, her eyes tired, posture slumped slightly. Hélène had taken to crouching before Marya and pushing tendrils of hair that had fallen out of Marya’s bun behind her ear, before letting Marya rest her head in her hand. They both looked a ruin, both of their hair falling out of its designs, red rimmed eyes.

“Mashenka, look at me my love,” Sonya startled slightly both at the term of endearment and at the kindness in Hélène’s voice, “you can’t keep doing this to yourself. You’ll hurt yourself then what will the girls do? Marya they need you to be here for them. You can’t back out on us all now. We need you. Natasha needs you. Sonya needs you. Hélène didn’t voice the rest of the sentence she didn’t need to, her face told the whole story.  _I need you_. To Sonya’s surprise her godmother flinched out of Hélène’s comforting hands.

“Why would they still wish to be here I have failed them. I’ve failed them all again. Natasha might not even make the night and here I am in your arms instead of doing what I can to help her. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. I could have done something to stop this. But no, it was all on poor Sonya, it’s always just been on her.” Sonya couldn’t help but hear the way Marya’s voice cracked as she said her name out loud, “I let him break her heart. Ruin her. Drive her to try to kill herself. And what did I do? Nothing.” Another swig from the bottle, “I did nothing now she might die. I did nothing and it will be my fault if she dies.”

“We both know that nothing good ever comes from blaming yourself for everything that goes wrong in life. It’ll just lead to a miserable life. Just ask my husband, he’s living proof.” Hélène took the bottle off Marya, placed it on the evidence table and pressed a slight kiss to her forehead. “Sleep Masha,you’ll feel better, I need to get home before my husband sends out a search party to see if I’ve run off with my brother. Write to me when Natasha wakes up.”

Before Hélène could turn to the door Sonya started to scurry off back down the corridor to Natasha’s room so she wasn’t caught by either the Countess or her Godmother. Neither would be a pleasant experience, especially after finding out what she just did about the pairs relationship.

Her untouched cup of tea was still by the door when she finally got back to her post, the candles flame dwindling even lower. Sonya’s heart broke for her godmother, broke for the was she felt so much responsibility for the two girls. She wouldn’t tell Natasha what she’d seen in the drawing room, it felt too intimate of a secret to share with anybody, even her cousin. If she could keep whatever was going in between Marya and Hélène away from the rest of society then that was all that mattered.

It was all on her shoulders now.

 

From the moment Hélène had entered the house with Marya almost supported on her shoulder, she’d noticed Sonya watching the pair through the door frame. Yet for some reason, no matter how hard they’d tried to hide their affair in the past, Hélène couldn’t help but be as affectionate to Marya as she would have been if they’d been alone. She’d heard Sonya scurry back to her room as she made her farewells, only to be stopped by a hand on her wrist.

“Please,” Marya’s voice was little above a whisper, “Don’t leave me here alone.”

Hélène, feeling only pity in her heart, couldn’t help but to ignore the warnings her head was giving her. Ignored the fear of what would happen if she didn’t return that evening. Ignored the fear of being pulled back into the flames. Ignored all rationality and sat back down next to Marya, cradling her head in the crook of her elbow, embracing her.

Marya’s tears had dried out, she’d wept in Hélène’s arms on the floor of an empty church. If it had been any other situation Hélène would’ve laughed. They had both been there to pray for Natasha’s safety but ended up asking forgiveness for their own sins through blurred vision.

She couldn’t help but notice that grief made Marya look both older and younger than her years, older because she looked exhausted, the wrinkles under her eyes becoming more prominent, and younger maybe only because the only time Hélène had ever seen such emotion if Marya’s face was in her younger years. Both the day before her wedding and the months after the death of her son.

The hairs at the nape of Marya’s neck had already started to come undone from its design, simple but beautiful, enough for Hélène to be able to run her fingers through it comfortably. Enough for Hélène to sooth Marya as much as she could. Feeling Marya finally relax into her arms made Hélène lean back until she could comfortably support the other woman without getting an ache in her arm. The bottle of vodka still sat on the floor and felt cold against the tips of Hélène’s fingers as she ran them over the glass before picking it up and bringing it to her lips. To her surprise Marya reached up and took the bottle from her and put it on the table behind.

There was something in Marya’s eyes, something Hélène had not seen for years, something she’d thought had died out forever, something that made the tears in her eyes turn to ice. Determination. Before Hélène could comment on the look, Marya surged forwards and pressed her lips to Hélène’s, the tiny flame in Hélène’s heart growing to a raging inferno, melting any leftover ice.

It was a kiss of love. A kiss of passion. A kiss of sorrow.

And Hélène let herself melt into it completely.

 

Marya didn’t know what led her to kiss Hélène, only that it managed to empty her brain of any doubts she had of herself. Hélène’s hand, already on the back of her head, tangled into the back of her hair, ruining it even more. Marya’s hands were on Hélène’s waist pulling her to straddle Marya’s legs, deepening the kiss even further. The feeling of their lips touching felt comforting, felt like coming home, felt like hiding in the back corridors of balls. It was enough to silence any thoughts in Marya’s head.

Pulling back slightly from the kiss Hélène began to mutter against Marya’s lips, “Are you truly sure this is what you want Masha?”

“I need you Lena. I need to forget it all.” Was Marya’s rushed murmured reply, slightly cut of towards the end by a quiet gasp as Hélène’s lips attached themselves to her neck.

As Hélène lead her up the stair of her own home the guilt began to set in. Natasha lying in bed, not waking, almost dead. Sonya, probably stood guard outside her cousins room, who at some point Marya’s going to have to make amends with, only managing to stay strong because of the hope her cousin will be returned to her. Two young girls, who are supposed to be under Marya’s protection, her guidance and yet here she is being let to her bedroom by the sister if the man who drive Natasha to suicide.

She stopped Hélène just as they got to the threshold of Marya’s bedroom. Going in with Hélène felt like a betrayal to Natasha, the girl who put all her faith in Marya in,y to be failed by her again and again. But at the same time following Hélène could stop all of this, stop all of the thoughts bombarding Marya’s head. The voices telling her she’d failed. She’d failed again. First her son. Then Natasha.

What if Natasha passed away whilst Marya was with Hélène?

What if something happened to Natasha whilst Marya let herself forget?

What if Natasha woke up?

“Marya, I can hear you thinking from here love. Natasha will be fine. I’ll make sure you don’t take long if that’s what you want.” Hélène’s voice brought her back to reality, out of her head. The pull of her arm brought movement back to her.

She let Hélène kick the door closed behind her. She let Hélène push her down onto the bed and straddle her hips again. She let Hélène undo all of their corsets and untie all of their skirts. She let Hélène kiss her until she forgot her name, forgot all her problems. She let Hélène take her apart and then put her back together piece by piece. She let Hélène fall asleep beside her, with her lips pressed to the male of Marya’s neck and her arms wrapped around her neck, grounding her.

Marya let herself relax slightly into Hélène’s arms.

 

And if Marya’s whispered prayers before she fell asleep included the wish for this relationship to not burn to the ground again, and if Hélène’s dreams included her and Marya surrounded by tiny candles on a bed of roses, then no one else has to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!
> 
> Comments make my heart sing with joy

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry again.
> 
> Comments make my heart sing


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